


Shrapnel

by Ebenaceae



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous Inquisitor, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nightmares, Not Really Character Death, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebenaceae/pseuds/Ebenaceae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Something about that specific time had stuck into his mind like shrapnel: no matter how many times he tried, and no matter how many ways he attempted the repetitive healing process, he’d still find more and more remnants that he</em> knew <em>were killing him. </em></p><p> <br/>Not everything after Corypheus is better. Dorian is there to try to help, despite Dorian being the subject of the Inquisitor's night terrors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shrapnel

It had happened while battling a fucking dragon. Because _of course_ it had.

Or… it may not have actually been a dragon after all. Perhaps it was just as likely that his mind was imposing the image of one of the great beasts onto something small and stupid like a mere rage demon or some darkspawn to make his terror justifiable.

And another possibility? The dragon in his dream masked Corypheus himself, in an attempt to make his nightmare tolerable in a fit of compassion; tolerable in this case being woken only with an anguished cry on his lips and a chill that tremored through his entire being while clawing at the bed around him. In all respects, it had been one of his better nights.

But sympathy towards the Inquisitor? The fade had never been kind to him; demons never worked that way.

The point was: he couldn’t remember when (though he’d rather not think about it), and he couldn’t remember what - or who had struck the blow (and he certainly did not wish to dwell on that either), but at some point before the defeat of Corypheus, with one, two distractions too many, the famed and so-called unbreakable Herald of Andraste turned to watch the strike that felled his teammate - his _love_ , the Tevinter mage Dorian. This, despite his reputation, shattered him.

It hadn’t been the first time one of his companions had fallen due to him; he’d blame that on his poor leadership, his lacking skills, awful attributes he convinced himself he had. It also hadn’t been his first or only nightmare since the breach had erupted and poured into the sky in its nauseating green colour, Andraste knows the terrors he experienced whenever he closed his eyes haunted him more and more frequently until barely an evening passed where he could say he felt well rested and calm. Not to mention how these fears had now seeped into the day, as well.

However, something about the sudden impact, or how he had almost not seen it, or how there had been streaks of blood clouding his vision as well as staining Dorian’s coat, or how the battle ended with the Inquisition’s mighty leader being watched by every soldier while choking through panicked sobs with a hoarse throat over one of many injured men that suffered in the Inquisition every day - something about that specific time had stuck into his mind like shrapnel: no matter how many times he tried, and no matter how many ways he attempted the repetitive healing process, he’d still find more and more remnants that he _knew_ were killing him.

Doubt still lingered in his mind that the Maker truly existed and was worth praying to aside from the breaths of _Maker’s balls_ and _Andraste’s tits_ that would escape his blasphemous lips, but he’d devote his life to the Chantry’s God if it meant the Maker could make him at peace, and no other would have to see their loved ones suffer, and Dorian would never be in the same position where he’d be forced to watch his lover fall…

_Dorian._

Since the moment the nightmare forced him awake, he had only just remembered that the demon… dragon… darkspawn? Its hit that crashed Dorian to the hard and unforgiving ground hadn’t actually take his life, despite how he had looked, splayed out and unmoving. The Tevinter’s light had never completely faded; the realization flooded over the Herald and threatened to drown him when, during the sharp gasps and the thrumming in his chest, a steady and firm hand not his own had found and clasped the hand that made the Inquisitor a household name across Thedas, scarred with the blighted mark, fisting at the sheets.

The sudden contact jolted the man out of his half-conscious state, shaking out the last remnants of the fade that stayed dim in the corners of his eyes and making him turn his head quickly enough to feel a sharp, stinging pain from the movement. He ignored it, however. Instead, he focused on his surroundings: a dark and spacious room, barely lit; millions of tiny lights in a moonless sky, seen clearly through a window that was haphazardly left open; and Dorian.  
Dorian, the supposed “evil vint”, had found himself loved and beloved and in the Inquisitor’s bed. Before, they found themselves sharing the lavish bed, made exclusively for the Inquisition’s leader - by Orlesians, of all people, - but now the two had soon called the bed theirs, it was now Dorian’s as well; as were the Inquisitor’s quarters, and the Inquisitor’s life.

However, this meant that the Inquisitor’s horrors would at be at least partially Dorian’s as well. The mage’s lover had trepidation about how well they’d fare if Dorian had to go through the perpetual fright, but after the proof that he and his affections were valid, Dorian had no doubt in his mind that he’d stand or lie beside his _amatus_ no matter the situation, and especially not at his love’s most vulnerable.

Dorian said nothing and didn’t move from his position sitting under the covers while the other man stared at him with wide eyes, looking over the room, the bed, and the mage himself in deep but shuddering heaves of breath. Soon after, the other looked away, and not long after that, his breathing settled slightly, to a manageable pace. However, neither had moved their hands, the scarred one protected by Dorian’s own. The tired hero sighed, shifting in his seat, and once again looked over at Dorian, with eyes now more weary than frightened.

“I’m sorry,” he managed with a croak, his back stiffening and hand twitching from under Dorian’s. This prompted Dorian to release the hand - though really a fist, tight and securing the sheets in a white-knuckled hold, - despite it was probably the last thing the Inquisitor wanted, to be separated from Dorian so soon after being teased about his death in his dreams.

He wasn’t sure if he had protested out loud, but he then found Dorian leaning over to grasp the shoulder farthest from him, gently tugging as to coax the man to shift closer. There was no protest then, as Dorian pulled him from where he had curled up in the middle of the night, the cold edge of the bed as it’d seem, into his arms. The air of Skyhold had always been crisp, but melting into Dorian’s side was like lounging in furs in front of a fire after being lost in the Highlands of the Dales, or even the Frostbacks themselves.

“Sorry? Maker preserve me, I should be the one saying such things to you, you understand, as you have the gravely displeasure of seeing me during my nightly disarray,” Dorian sat up straight and kept his grip on the shoulder of his lover, his warm and deep voice enveloping the Herald’s senses, again much like the crackling of a fire on an otherwise cold and unforgiving night. Dorian’s thumb constantly rubbed circles, purposely avoiding a small scar from one of their many excursions the mage memorized after mapping the other’s body a hundred times over. His other hand was clasped with the scarred hand under the blankets. “I’m sure my hair is a travesty, as expected. Not to mention my moustache, it’s so hard to keep myself from sleeping on my face during the night - you realize this already, I’m sure, but it’s too embarrassing for me not to call out…”

A voice shuddered from where laid a head on Dorian’s bare chest, almost a sob, “I had you killed,” it admitted. Admittedly, Dorian’s thumb circles hesitated for the slightest second, being caught off-guard by such a statement.

“I cannot say I’m surprised,” Dorian said slowly, “many still do want me dead.” Dorian had grown the slightest bit tense, thinking about what they had both said. Dorian played his comment as a joke, but he knew that it was still very much true; his efforts to seem like the Blessed White Vint seemed to be in vain. To shake himself of the feeling, he shifted, moving himself even closer to the man he was comforting, Dorian resting his head on his lover’s own.

However, the other grew rigid. “Maker, no,” he said breathlessly, pushing himself off of the Tevinter to look him in his eyes, grey as a burnt-out ember. However, he clasped their hands tighter. “I misspoke, I - dammit, Dorian, I would never actually… actually…” his stray hand raked through his hair, he forced himself to not tug on it from his stress. “I’d never,” he stated, brows furrowed and gaze determined, as if saying the final word on the subject. Dorian swallowed.

“Ah. I know. I do, really, I apolo -”

“I meant that my actions killed you. I’m, I didn’t realize, and I wasn’t focusing, you died because of me,” the Inquisition’s leader interrupted in harsh words. Unable to think while trying to read Dorian’s expressions, he turned his head down. “You didn’t die, though.”

“ _Venhedis_ , I certainly hope not,” Dorian started gently, “it’d be devastating to find out that I’ve been the living dead for whatever time. And as a necromancer, as well! Ha! I’m sure the Mortalitasi would appreciate that, yes?” A pause lasted for a few seconds, when the other did not reply. “However, I’d have to say that I do make quite the pretty corpse, if I do say so myself,” Dorian said offhandedly, quieter. He heard a sigh.

“Dorian, it happened again.” The Inquisitor clenched his free hand. “The dream, with you… you, Sera, Blackwall and I, when we... and you...”

“Ah.” Dorian’s face darkened. It wasn’t the first time that particular nightmare had reared its ugly head. “That’s enough of that, then. _Kaffas_ …” Dorian looked over to see shoulders doing small heaves with silent sobs. Dorian had a near-complete understanding of the pain, and the inability to clarify and whatnot, but he’d never be impacted in the same way - this he knew. But he did at least know how to stop the flowing tears, or at least, he knew how to try. Instantly, Dorian latched onto the man with both arms, drawing him close without objection from the other, and they moved together until they were lying down together. They tangled together, and though his skin was still damp with sweat from the earlier terrors, when he pressed his face in the crook of Dorian’s golden brown-skinned neck, no protest came.

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian crooned, pressing his lips to the top of the head of the man attached to him. He felt the flutter of eyelashes blinking back wet tears brush against the sensitive parts of his neck, where he had grown accustomed to lips and teeth. The closeness caused every vibration and deep sound to be felt and heard throughout them both.

“ _Amatus_ ,” one hand found itself petting the hair he kissed, giving his lover a helmet of his skin; his life. His other arm draped itself around the waist pressed closely to his own, creating the rest of the armour. Andraste knew how fierce the Herald could truly be, a deadly force to be reckoned with that literally killed a god, or at least, a near-god. He had real armour to protect himself with, but at that moment, there was no room for pride and cold silverite would never feel as safe as Dorian’s flame.

“You’re safe, _amatus_. I’m safe. We’re both alive, and here we are, together, no Mortalitasi involved. _Amatus_ ,” minutes passed, and once again, the ragged and raw sobs and gasps for air started to steady, “ _amatus_ , there would never be the slightest chance that I’d let myself be killed so easily. Would the Maker really let my stunning looks and chiseled features go to waste? Preposterous,”  Dorian tutted, “and besides my physical qualities, my unmatched skills make me entirely unmoveable, yes? I must be the most talented necromancer in this barbaric country. Who is to say that I cannot rise myself from the dead, hmm? I’ve always been remarkable, I’m sure that after surviving the impossible breach ordeal and whatnot, I could probably fit in at least a few more miracles. After all, doing miracles and impossible feats seems to be a regular pastime around here…”   

“That does seem to be true enough,” the man in his arms sighed. Dorian perked up and shifted to attempt to look at him.

“Oh! You haven’t fallen asleep yet. I know you need the rest but I’m actually happy you haven’t yet, I talk to myself too much already,” Dorian muttered, “however, I’m conflicted, does this mean my voice isn’t melodic enough to lull people asleep? Perhaps I’m not sultry enough after all?”  

“You’re sensual as always, love,” he confirmed, playing along.

“Ah, indeed. I don’t suppose there was need to doubt that, _amatus_.”

“Hmm. Amatus...” he copied.

“Taking the effort to learn my language, are we?” Dorian smiled. Quiet laughter came from the other man.

“Say it again,” he asked.

“What? _Amatus_?” Dorian complied, leaning in while saying the Tevene word in the most tantalizing way he could. Dorian’s grin, however, faded after another laugh came from the man beside him. It was louder, unmuffled, from moving his face away from Dorian’s neck. Dorian made a sound of protest from this.

“I’m - I’m sorry, love,” the other said, trying to silence his laughter and calm himself. He moved to look the mage in the eye, “I suppose it’s just, odd, is all - the more you say it, the less it sounds like an actual word… I’m half convinced you’re spitting random sounds,” he bit his lip, trying to look sympathetic as he suppressed giggles, brought on further by the overly-offended look Dorian wore. Dorian rolled his eyes, pouting and purposely putting on a show.

“Oh, for shit’s sake. That is _the last_ time I try to be sappy for anyone ever. Especially you, I do hope you realize.”

“I’m afraid I’m too accustomed to your sarcasm. ‘I hate you’ has become synonymous with ‘I love you’, and I’ll admit, confronting enemies of the Inquisition has become rather awkward because of that.” A bark of laughter suddenly erupted from Dorian, imagining the over-the-top predicament such a problem could create.

“I trust you’ve never said ‘I hate you too’ to anyone, then?” Dorian teased.

“Oh, no, never,” a kiss was pressed against Dorian’s cheek, and their foreheads were pressed together, “there’s only one man I’d ever despise as much as I do.” Dorian gave a small smile, his chest feeling tight with emotion.

“Before I continue, I will admit that I did say I’d never be sappy again, but… just don’t count this last time, yes?” He blinked slowly and inhaled. “I love you, so, so, incredibly much. There’s likely hundreds of thousands of reasons why, but listing them all would take a lifetime - and we have so much more important things to do together, honestly.”

“I don’t know,” the Inquisitor grinned, “I don’t think I’d mind listening to you whisper sweet nothings for an eternity. Though it is late,” he noted. He took a second to look out the open window to the sky behind the mountains around Skyhold, studying the stars, “it is late, and I am tired. Perhaps you can start your list in the morning, while we sit on the balcony, eating some of those Orlesian pastries Josephine insisted we try? She did promise the gift wasn’t actually poisoned, after all.”

“However ashamed I may be for accepting Orlesian food, they are tempting,” Dorian sighed. “Fine. Whatever you wish.” Dorian shut his eyes gently, dark eyelashes resting on his sculpted face. “Sleep, my love.”

“Goodnight, amatus.”

“I really do need to help you practice your Tevene,” Dorian commented off-handedly. He was silenced with a kiss, and together, they drifted off into dreamless sleep.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The first time I accidentally got Dorian "killed" I was wondering... shouldn't my Inquisitor react to that? Didn't he just see his boyfriend die?  
> My Inquisitor doesn't fare well after the game.


End file.
